


hell freezes over

by sickgirl_mp3



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: F/M, figure skating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-03-02 08:16:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13314159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sickgirl_mp3/pseuds/sickgirl_mp3
Summary: beyoncé is a fucking winner. all she needs is a rink, good skates, and gold. maybe.





	1. WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP, UTAH. 1989.

Beyoncé is shocked out of her sleep by ice cold water to the face, gasping and yelling.

 

“Shut up,” Jordan says, slamming an empty cup on the dresser, “Get the fuck up.”

 

“Jordan, it’s-” Beyoncé looks at the clock. 5 AM. “It’s five in the morning.”

 

“Don’t tell me what time it is. If I wanted to know, I’d look at the clock,” Jordan bites back. “Already have. That’s why I’m up and your ass is not.”

 

Beyoncé stares at him, clearly upset. She opens her mouth to say something, not moving from her spot.

 

“Get up!” Jordan yells, forcefully snatching the sheets off of Beyoncé and tossing them down next to him. He gets on one knee and looks her in the eye. “You listen to me. I’m not gonna let you fuck this up by being some lazy fucking-”

 

“Cunt?” Beyoncé finishes angrily.

 

“Get up,” Jordan says, ignoring her, angrier than before. 

 

Beyoncé stands up, looking up at him. The self satisfied ghost of a smirk he has on his face is enough to make her try to push him away as if it’ll wipe the look off; he catches her wrists as her hands reach his chest.

 

“I’m the cunt you fucked, Jordan,” Beyoncé breathes angrily, frustrated and trying to get out of his grip, “Live with it.”

 

“I’ll fuckin’ regret it as long as I fuckin’ live, ‘cause unfortunately you are the cunt that I fucked and every waking moment after that one will be spent looking at you and reliving it.”

 

Beyoncé is livid.

 

Jordan storms to the small bathroom the room has, dragging a stumbling Beyoncé with him until they’re in front of the mirror.

 

“Look at you,” he says, bitter, “Who are you?”

 

Beyoncé has tears in her eyes now. Who  _ is  _ she?

 

“I’m me.”

 

“Well, fuck, I’m me, too. You don’t stand out,” Jordan says, full of contempt, “Who are you?”

 

“Second place finisher at regionals,” Beyoncé answers.

 

“That doesn’t make you fuckin’ special,” Jordan says, seething, “that just makes you the bitch not good enough to finish in first. You aren’t fucking special.”

 

Beyoncé is so resentful toward him that it personally astounds her. Jordan lets one of her hands go to put the cigarette stuck behind his ear into his mouth.

 

“You’re one of those sticks away from dying,” Beyoncé tells him, “I hope.”

 

“And that’d still make me more special than you, wouldn’t it?”

 

“Fuck you, I’m Beyoncé,” she tells Jordan, almost adding that she doesn’t need him.

 

She knows she’d be wrong.

 

“The first of her name but she still can’t get first fucking place,” Jordan replies. “Put your fuckin’ clothes on.”

 

He sounds disgusted. Beyoncé wants him to drop dead.

  
  


* * *

 

 

 

Knee bends launch Beyoncé into edge jumps. She glides forward and jumps into a pick-assisted toe loop and circles the rink after she lands just to launch herself into a triple lutz, to everyone’s delight. She has learned to stop looking for Jordan. She owes everything and nothing to him, she’s found out, so in this moment he is not important. She moves with grace, agility, speed; she’s floating. She bounces back from the few seconds of boredom with a triple axel, landing smoother than ever before.

 

When she had first landed it in practice about a year ago, Jordan didn’t even congratulate her. His face didn’t break into that stupid fucking shit-eating grin, he didn’t clap; nothing. He just took his cigarette out of his mouth, smoke blowing out of his nose and mouth as he coldly told her to do it again. 

 

She’d tried to protest, ask for a break, maybe, but Jordan asked how many times she’d failed to land a triple axel. She didn’t know. But he knew, and it was twenty times. He wanted her to outdo it by twice the amount and when she cried about being tired, he told her to suck it up because he’d always been tired of her shit but he never said anything about it. Beyoncé wants everyone who hears that story someday to know that is a lie, Jordan always said something about it.

 

But she did 40 triple axels and then sat on the ice, crying. Jordan told her to get up, and it took her a minute because she thought she was in trouble, but she did it, feet killing her, and he drove her to McDonald’s in her car. Her feet hurt too badly to even press the pedals or she would’ve driven him home because they live in the same neighborhood. He told her to wait in the car and he stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray, getting out and going to the counter to ask for something. He came back with two cookies. 

 

“You’re working those off at the gym tomorrow.”

 

She hears screams erupt from the audience and she grins, tears forming in her eyes. She flawlessly carries the rest of her performance out, near tears because she’s so joyful. When she’s finished, she runs past cameras and friends to sit next to Jordan and hear scores. He doesn’t hold her, hug her at all; he just sits there, cigarette he’s never supposed to have at the rink under his shoe. They respect him too much, fear him too much. They don’t want to flip his switch. He trains Beyoncé fucking Knowles, show him a little runt better than her, he would ask if they tried anything. When they have the best, then they can decide how he’s treated best there, he’d say, but until then, he can handle himself just fine. When Beyoncé used to look for him, care about what he was doing during times like this, he’d be chain smoking like his life depended on it. Maybe if he keeps it up he’ll kill himself. She can only hope.

  
  


6.0. Beyoncé pulled a 6.0. 

 

Flowers were shoved into her hands, microphones shoved into her face. She shakily thanked her friends and family, stopping herself from shifting from one skate to the other excitedly while she talked. She’s going to the Olympics. Jordan is clinically answering questions, a stark contrast to bright, cheerful, energetic Beyoncé.

 

Jordan disappears afterward and Beyoncé has to take a cab to the airport because his car is gone.

 


	2. DOLLY'S SKATING RINK; 1979

“I want 40 upfront,” a boy who looks to be about Beyoncé’s age says to her mother.

 

“Why?” Tina asks; she’s taken Beyoncé to a rink to get trained. She’s pretty good just by working by herself and watching skating competitions, but she wanted to get better, so here she stands.

 

“Your daughter looks like a handful and I feel like I’m gonna need something to relieve the damn stress. So I’m gonna buy a few cartons of cigs.”

 

“You’re 17,” Tina says, unamused.

 

“And you’re here ‘cause I’m one of the best. If you want someone else, go get someone else,” he says, very disrespectfully, “I have all the time in the world to waste if you wanna argue about it.”

 

Tina forks over 30 dollars and tells him he can buy enough cartons just fine with 30 bucks. He rolls his eyes and Tina rushes off after giving Beyoncé a kiss and threatening the boy with bodily harm if anything happens to Beyoncé. He rolls his eyes and dismissively waves her off.

 

She looks at him hard; he’s very drawn, fit but just bordering on being skin-and-bones. A cigarette hangs out of his lips.

 

“What’s your name?” he asks gruffly, circling around her on the ice.

 

“Beyoncé.”

 

“I’ve never heard that name before,” he says, “Nobody else will hear it either if you don’t keep from fuckin’ around when you’re with me. Got it?”

 

“Why are you cussing at m-”

 

“I’m not gonna get paid to be your friend. Get used to it. What do you wanna do?” he asks rudely.

 

“It’d be nice to go to the Olympics-”

 

“It’d be  _ nice _ ? Like it’s a second choice, something to fall back on. Don’t be some wishy washy asshole. You either want it or you don’t.”

 

This man reads her like a book; it’s scares her.

 

“I… want to go to the Olympics.”

 

He skates a figure eight and halts, abrupt but graceful, and ice scrapes up from the blade. Beyoncé wants to learn how to do that. He’s cute; maybe someday they’d do it together on some kind of cute date. She can only hope. 

 

“What do you want to do?” he asks, clearly unsatisfied by her answer. 

 

“I want to go to the Olympics,” Beyoncé says, fists almost clenching because his attitude is getting to her. “How do I get there?”

 

“How do you get to Carnegie Hall, Beyoncé?” he asks as if she knows that. She’s sixteen, she doesn’t know shit. 

 

“I dunno,” she answers honestly. 

 

“Practice.”

 

“What’s your name?” Beyoncé asks. 

 

She thinks he looks like a Tyler. Maybe a Bryce. 

 

“Jordan. Every extra question that doesn’t have to do with skating or your goal is 50 bucks,” Jordan says. 

 

“I-“ Beyoncé starts. 

 

“What was that?” Jordan asks, leaning in as if he missed something Beyoncé may have said. 

 

Beyoncé rolls her eyes. 

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Just as I thought. Do somethin’ good,” Jordan says, raising his eyebrows expectantly when she looks at him in bewilderment. “Are you hard of hearing? Go!”

 

“Huh?” Beyoncé asks.

 

Jordan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He lets out a tired, frustrated grunt. Beyoncé wants to cry. 

 

“I want you to do something good, as in, ‘start fucking skating,’ kid.” Jordan begins to shout. “GO! GO.”

 

Beyoncé begins to haphazardly skate, hot tears stinging at her eyes. She almost falls twice before she stops. 

 

“Can I start over?” she asks, back to Jordan because tears are running down her face.

 

No. She asked again, no. She asked a third time, pleaded; no.

 

“What’s your mother do?” Jordan asks.

 

“She’s a hairdresser.”

 

“She still at work?”

 

“Yeah.. why?” Beyoncé returns.

 

“You ask to start over one more time, you stop one more time, I’m taking you to her and interrupting the hard work she’s doing to keep a roof over your whiny ass head to tell her this won’t work,” he answers quietly, stubbing his cigarette out on the glass next to him. “Go.”

 

She stopped looking at Jordan thirty minutes into her skating because he’d just lift her eyebrows at her, seemingly bored, every time she looked his way. Her feet keep moving. mostly in the same ways but in different patterns. She hopes Jordan doesn’t notice. Maybe he does.She sucks it up and does this move she’d seen in competitions on television, pushing back into a spinning jump. Sometimes she’d spin around two full times, mostly one, but either way, it makes her happy. It was all she really knew.

 

“Stop,” Jordan says, skating over to her, cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Beyoncé stops, blades scraping ice up. “You just did a double toe loop.”

 

“I... know.”

 

“And you’ve never taken classes?” 

 

“No.”

 

“Get off the ice.”

 

“Why?”

 

Jordan feels around in his pockets until he feels what he needs, pulling out a set of keys and skating off the rink. Beyoncé follows, and soon he’s walking on his skates to a room in the same hall as the locker room. He turns around.

 

“Don’t walk on your skates like that again unless you wanna pay to sharpen dull ass skates more than you have to,” he nudges the door open with his shoulder, turning the lights on and putting his cigarette out. “If I catch you doin’ the shit I’m adding 10 to your mother’s bill and you can either work it out with me or explain to her why she has your ass making her pay extra for some bullshit. Deal?”

 

“Deal.”

 

Jordan fishes around for a cassette player and pulls a box out from under the table it sits on, picking a cassette from the many ones in it and playing it. Beyoncé recognizes the guitar riff that screeches from the speakers instantly; Heart.

 

“We’re gonna dance now.”


End file.
